Catarpillar Junkies

Over the years, I've had a love hate relationship with the gym. It's like a drug: you need to do it enough times to get hooked. I always consider people with their bulging biceps and veiny necks complete addicts, looking for their next hit - and the only way these 'buddies' get their fix is by parading around the gym with skimpy tees, and zitty backs exposed to the general public. Suffice to say, I obviously fit into the general public - and am constantly bombarded with these junkies every time I walk into the downtown 'state of the art' gym I go to.

Ok, so this is a tiny bit exaggerated.

Now before you think I spent my hard earned dollars to get a year membership here, let me tell you - there's no way. I luckily won a membership through a competition last year - but perhaps if I'd paid I would feel pressure to go more. This environment is very different from the YMCA I used to frequent as a teenager. Obviously in my hometown 'Y' they didn't have TV's on every machine as they do in the Toronto Goodlife. This boggles my mind as to how it's possible to concentrate on the show being played before you, while sluggishly mulling about on a treadmill. I think the people who watch the TV's are simply faking, to imply their skill level is well beyond that of the average user (ie. me).

Her name is 'Sodapop'

In Woodstock (my hometown), the gym was filled with older people, striving to get a hold on their fitness - and the women who got kicked out of 'Curves' (the all-female upper scale gym on the other side of town). There was a point when I would spend a good hour everyday with the old YMCA equipment, and had no fear of breaking a sweat which often resulted in me looking like a raving sweaty lunatic. There's not a chance I can pull that off in the Toronto 'Guilt'life. Between the female models running around with more make-up on than any drag queen I've ever had the pleasure of meeting, and the gym bunnyboys who prance around with their tinytanks and shrivel sacks. My most recent experience at the gym was hosted by my guide, 'Margarita' (a name that is pretty self explanatory - and a dead giveaway as to what the guiding hand was for her conception). Margarita took me on a tour of the gym, doing the typical upsell routine - trying to convince me that I would benefit from a personal trainer for $50 a session (most likely to be named Rico). After the tour, I decided I'd had enough for one day - and was satisfied that I could leave with the ability to say 'I'd been to the gym today'. As I walked out, I spotted the one thing that may bring me back for a second trip. The door attendant. This jacked up Gymmy was the real deal: until of course, you got a good look at the manorexic catarpillars lounging in the space where his eyebrows should live. Why do men ever venture into playing with a tweezer? There's never a happy ending when it's man vs. tweeze. I can't wait to see them again, to fully absorbe the monumental beauty he's sculpted on his brow.

I plan on hitting the gym next week: will report back.

Finally, I got a call from my Dad yesterday to remind me of a very important fact. If you had read Thursday's blog re: the chipmunk fiasco - I made the mistake of writing that EVERYONE was laughing at me after discovering the stuffed animal mockery in my trap. My Dad infact, was the only one who did not laugh, and found the display to be incredibly cruel. I thank him for that, as I'm sure he contributed to the undeniable guilt my mother felt after her 'punking' was through.

That's all for now, skinabees. I have a busy rest of the weekend, so we will see you back here on Monday!

C